Volume 1 Issue 3

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“You know this is going to hurt, right?” I try to dazzle him with my brightest smile before lifting my head to the heavens and closing my eyes. I take a deep breath, sucking in the bitter night air, bathing my body in the moonless night. “Tonight’s the night, Lucky,” I whisper. “Tonight’s the night we burn this fucker to the ground.” I know why he’s here. Why he thinks he needs to be here with me, at this place, in this moment. Lucky believes that he’s in Love with me. That maybe he can stop me from fulfilling what I know is my destiny. It’s foolish and stupid, his inherent shyness incapable of expressing the words, but I know how he feels. And I love it. I do. And I take all of his Love unashamedly and without guilt. Because that is how he Loves. That is his gift to me. A gift I wish I was capable of giving back.

I wish I could return his feelings. I wish I was worthy enough to return his Love. Lucky is nervous. I can tell by the way the ring on his thumb clinks nervously against the gas can clutched tightly in his hand. The rapid staccato of silver against plastic is a hypnotic cadence that strangely sets my nerves on end. I laugh, distracting myself by lighting up the brown spicy clove that I always keep behind my left ear. I light the clove, allowing the flavored smoke to wash over me and settle my gnawing anxiety. “We may be young, but it’s not like we have all the time in the world, Lucky.” The selfish part rotting inside of me latches on to his Love that I can’t possibly return, but my inner pragmatist is louder and so much more vocal. I don’t have to say it, but he knows. This is the end of our forever. The end of our existence. Despite the fact that we haven’t even had a chance to truly live. Life is shitty that way. I take a deep drag of the clove and pass it to Lucky out of habit. I hate smoking alone. It’s not until the brown tube is in his hands that I realize my potentially fatal error. But Lucky knows better. He fucking knows better, but before I can stop him he places the clove to his lips. I don’t have time to respond before he inhales, but it happens again in the worst way. He starts coughing that cough. The kind of cough that shakes all five-and-a-half feet of his fragile frame. As if possessed, Lucky’s body violently bends over as he is assaulted by a demon during his fit, blood rushing to his face, turning it a scary purple-y blue. I don’t freak out. I never do. I’m used to this. Quickly I position myself behind him, and tightly balling my fists, I viciously begin striking his back with all of my strength. I pound into him, breaking up the congestion in his chest until he’s spitting phlegm and blood at our feet. Even after he stops, I allow my hands to run up and down his back, calming him down. I permit my fingers to trail down the bones of his spine, poking through the well-worn plaid shirt that covers his body. Beneath the thin material of his shirt, his warmth, his humanity, his Love for me radiates underneath my palm, and just for a second—maybe two—I close my eyes, lean in to him, and cherish what will be one of my final moments. Then abruptly, I pull away. It’s too late for this now. It’s too late for us now, so I focus on the task at hand. My laborious efforts to bring Lucky back from the brink leave both of us a bit breathless. I reach down to the pavement, picking the red gas can off of the ground, and march towards the dilapidated house in front of us. The decrepit clapboard raised rancher rots less than fifty feet from us. An orange flyer marking my former house of horrors as “condemned” is taped carelessly to the front door and flaps lazily with the evening breeze. Mustering every ounce of strength left in my deteriorating body, I limp with purpose up to the four short steps to the front door. Unsure if it will even work, I use a rusty steel key to unlock the brass handle. The door swings open with no resistance and before I can stop myself, I’m back in that house. Lucky isn’t as quick as me. By the time he’s made his way across the threshold, I’ve already lubricated the carpeted foyer and half of the living room with gasoline. I don’t—I can’t—look up at him as he enters the house and instead ask him to repeat his stupid joke. It’s the only one that he knows, and he’s said it hundreds of times, but it never ceases to make me laugh. ”Tell me the joke again.” It’s a demand, not a request, but as always, Lucky complies even if he truly doesn’t understand. “If you think breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck, try breaking a condom.” This is usually followed by laughter, no matter how hollow, but it just won’t come out of me right now. Lucky must mistake my silence for deafness, so he begins to repeat the joke before I interrupt him. “It’s not funny, Lucky.” Nothing about this situation is funny. Lucky doesn’t just Love me: he is In Love with me. And because of what I am and what is happening to me, to us, I can never return his affections. Broken mirrors are for those with hope for tomorrows. Broken condoms are for those with dreams for the future. Lucky and I—we have none of that. I shove the nearly empty gasoline can in his hand, my emotions fuming. “You should be doing this, Lucky. Not me.” For the first time I see contempt in Lucky’s eyes. He feels betrayed. Like I’m backing out on the final promise that we made to one another. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. His eyes narrow. His expression is one of anger, poorly masquerading as pain. I wish I didn’t know him so well. “If you want out, Leila, the door is right behind you. But I’m doing this.” My beautiful Lucky. Even though his words are full of anger and fear, it is the pain in his voice that stabs my insides. For a moment I’m rendered speechless as Lucky disappears further into the house, coating my home with his own canister of gasoline. “Goddammit, Lucky!” I cry out. The tears won’t stop flowing. By the time he’s come back to me, I’ve yanked off my prosthetic leg, balancing precariously on my remaining limb. In my left hand I hold up an unlit Zippo lighter. “Have you thought this through, Lucky?” My face is wet, and my eyes are blurry from salted tears, but I can make out his beautiful face. “I was given six weeks six fucking months ago, Lucky! I’ve experienced more pain in this lifetime than you’ve experienced in a single fucking day. I am well past my goddamn expiration date. I have expired. I am done living on borrowed time! Can you honestly say the same?” I’m screaming at this point, but he doesn’t seem to hear me, lost in his own thoughts. “What about me, Leila? You gave me the can. You told me that I should be the one doing this. Am I wrong?” I bite my lip, shaking my head. “There’s still hope for CF, Lucky. There’s no cure for what I’ve got.” I believe without even realizing it, Lucky hurls the half-empty gas container to the floor. “If there was still hope for me, we wouldn’t have met in a fucking hospice!” he hisses. Lucky is right. Then again, he’s always right. Smiling, I let the prosthetic leg fall to the floor and light the Zippo. For a moment, I’m mesmerized by the flame, of what the absence of what it can do versus the damage it can do and what it can wreak havoc upon. Lacking the strength to look up at Lucky, I ask, “Tell me something you’ve always wanted to do, Lucky. Something off of your Bucket List.” I blow out the Zippo and hop on my one good leg towards the sofa, much to Lucky’s chagrin. Deep down I know he would have liked to assist me. Yet even at my most vulnerable, I won’t give him that privilege. I know Lucky, and my question is cruel. I know his story. Most of his twenty-three years on this planet have been as a resident in one hospital or another. The mere idea of suggesting a “Bucket List” is malicious at best, but I can’t help myself. He knows this and fires back with an equally painful question of his own. “You want to tell me why you need to burn this house to the ground?” I shiver, but not because of the gasoline-soaked sofa that dampens my clothes. This house needs to go. It needs to burn. It needs to never exist so that no other human will suffer the noxious fumes, spores, and poison that littered this home. Shifting on the drenched sofa, I offer Lucky a half smile. “The couch is soaked. This is really gonna hurt, yeah?” There are a million different questions that cross his face, but he remains silent. I shrug my shoulders in resignation, fully embracing what is to come. “Bad things happened here, Lucky. I don’t want the bad things to happen to anyone else.” “Is it yours?” He means, “Is it your house?” but I don’t answer that question. Instead I say, “Does it matter?” I wince, adjusting myself on the wet sofa and try to break the tension that has permeated the room. “Number One on your Bucket List, Lucky. Give it to me.” “I’ve never kissed a girl.” It’s a lie. I know he’s lying. Lucky is far too beautiful to go through life—terminally ill or not—without brushing his lips against another’s. I roll my eyes at him, causing him to amend his statement. “I’ve never kissed a girl that means something to me.” Even now, I’m thrown by his proclamation. I can feel my eyes sparkle in delight as I wiggle my fingers, beckoning Lucky to lift me off of the sofa. Being the smart-ass that I am, I am compelled to say, “I want you to know I’m calling ‘bullshit,’ but it would be a shame to turn down the opportunity.” Lucky holds me tightly in his arms, keeping me steady on my one good remaining leg, but still we sway. We sway as if we are dancing our last dance, and it is the most beautiful feeling in the world. At the moment, there is no other place I would rather be than right here in Lucky’s arms. “Lucky, I’m ready to go.” I don’t know where the words come from. I’m not even a hundred percent sure that I mean them. But I say them anyway. “It’s time, Lucky,” I say softly. I allow Lucky to take the lighter from my hand, still lit, and watch as if in slow motion, him tossing the lit silver-cased flame onto the sofa. Immediately the cushions erupt into flames. Smoke quickly engulfs the room. I have to believe that it is Love that keeps us both rooted in the same spot. I have to believe that it is Love that compels me to grab Lucky’s face and press my lips against his. That it is Love that compels my tongue to caress his lips and slip into his mouth. It is Love that says everything that I wish I had the ability to express to Lucky that words just can’t convey. As the oxygen is sucked up around us and the flames sear and burn our flesh, I am overcome with a sense of peace and wonderment and happiness. Because Lucky has given me the greatest gift of all: his Love.

JD Mayrant is a freelance writer from Washington, DC. She has contributed to Black Heart Magazine, Haunted Waters Press, Cliterature Online Literary Journal, and the Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. More information can be found at www.jdmayrant.weebly.com.

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